“The room keeps spinning,” he slurs.
Concern has me jumping into action. Is he having a stroke? Or maybe something with his brain? “What—” My question is cut off at the sight of the half-filled bottle of premium vodka spilling out beside him.
Of course.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve seen this story play out time and time again with Cal, yet the sick feeling weaving its way through my stomach has me curling my hands into tight fists. Years’ worth of anger rises to the surface at the sight of him plastered on the floor, unable to sit up from how much alcohol he consumed.
Once an addict, always an addict.
I slide my mask into place, keeping my voice detached as I ask, “Are you hurt?”
“Only here.” He taps his chest, right over his heart.
God. It’s so sad to see a grown man like him suffer the way he does. During our childhood and early adulthood, he was always so full of life. To see him reduced to this broken version of himself only draws out the protector in me.
Cal has so much to offer the world, but his self-loathing and destructive patterns get in his way every single time. A part of me hoped that he found happiness in the six years we spent apart.
Not with someone else, but withhimself.
He is no better than the day he left.
I pick up the vodka bottle so it doesn’t spill any more before taking in our surroundings. A few of Cal’s old hockey trophies are scattered around the floor, along with an old NHL jersey of his and a few opened boxes.
No wonder he was drinking. Going through those kinds of memories—the ones that represent the highest highs and the lowest lows—would upset anyone. It’s just that Cal’s way of coping is the worst.
“What happened?” My voice is much softer this time.
He blinks up at the ceiling. “I fell.”
“So you said. But how?”
“Lost my balance when trying to pick up the bottle.” He stumbles over the sentence. Despite the puddle on the floor, Cal must have drunk a decent amount if he is falling over himself and tripping over his words.
I help prop him up against one of the travel trunks, grunting from how much he weighs. “What happened before that?”
Stop asking him questions and go.
Except when I think about leaving, the image of Cal tapping his chest and saying it hurts replays in my head.
I don’t stick around for the drunk man in front of me. I stay for the man I once loved more than anything.
He steals the vodka bottle back and tips it over an open box beside him.
“Stop!” I steal the bottle from his hands and put it out of reach before assessing the damage.
“Oh, no.” I press my hand against my mouth. “What did you do?”
Vodka soaks through hundreds of photos of the Kane family. The one on top features Cal’s mother, who beams at the camera. Her blond hair looks like spun gold and is slightly lighter than Cal’s. His father has an arm wrapped around her. He looks just like I remember, stern with a hint of something lurking behind his dark, beady eyes. The three Kane brothers smile up at the camera, with Cal just barely standing taller than Declan. Rowan is the smallest, although he was probably barely ten years old here.
“Who cares? It’s all ruined anyway.”
I try to salvage some of the photos, wiping off the vodka with the bottom of my shirt. “These are memories.”
“Memories of what? A family that doesn’t exist anymore?” he snaps.
I keep at my task with every intention to save as many photos as I can. “I understand you’re upset.”
“What do you know?” He scowls.